


Nightmares

by AngryPirateHusbands



Series: Let Me Guide You Through This Nightmare [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring, Comfort/Angst, Coping, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nightmares, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8335897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryPirateHusbands/pseuds/AngryPirateHusbands
Summary: Takes place during S3.Flint is finally faced with the reality of Miranda's traumatic death. Before his fraying mind gives way to vivid hallucinations, he is plagued by nightmares. And Silver does his best to guide him through it.





	

The nightmares hadn't started until several weeks after the events at Charlestown. It made sense, in a way. Flint supposed that there had simply been too much on his mind to accept the sudden loss of Miranda. So much had happened in his absence from Nassau that his mind couldn't settle on which issue to focus on first. Eleanor Guthrie had been apprehended and turned over to the English, Hornigold and Dufresne had defected with a handful of men, and it seemed that England was coming ever closer to launching their attack. Not to mention that upon their return they found the Urca gold, _their prize_ , sitting secured up at the fort. And it had been taken by Jack _fucking_ Rackham, Vane's previous quartermaster. A man with a sharp wit and a quick tongue that rivalled his own quartermaster's.

And then of course there was Silver. The man's refusal to betray his crew had resulted in cruel torture and the inevitable loss of his leg. When he wasn't preoccupied with matters of the ship and their plans for Nassau, he was tending to him. Or rather, shoving him into a chair when he needed to rest and threatening to throw the iron boot into the ocean if he didn't heed Howell's instructions. He supposed karma had been due to catch up with him sooner or later. The man was just as much of a stubborn pain in the ass as he had ever been. He found himself wishing he had given Gates and Billy more credit during their time as quartermaster. Dealing with this sort of dogged bullshit was exhausting.

Once things began to settle, both on the ship on the shore, Flint found himself faced with the reality of his loss. He hadn't allowed himself to ponder on the circumstances surrounding Miranda's death, and now all of the sudden it was forced before him. The way Ashe had betrayed them all so many years ago only to do so again when that bullet pierced her temple. Miranda did not get the burial she deserved. She had not been lain to rest, not by any stretch of the imagination, and was instead left to rot or burn in the smoking husk they had left of Charlestown. These were the grim realities that plagued his dreams and fueled his nightmares.

Tonight was no exception.

_Flint saw her face, a sickly shade of ashen gray as blood continued to drip from her right temple. He heard the ticking of that accursed clock in the background and then the muted booms of cannon blasts as Charlestown fell around them. His sword cut through the air with a fury he had never known, slicing through flesh with little distinction. Men or women, peasants or nobles; it mattered not who got caught in his path for they were all felled by his blade. Then Vane's voice cut through the air. "Move, now..!" When Flint turned to see the coffin that held his partner he froze in place. Cuts, bruises, and scrapes darkened her flesh from the rocks the monsters of this place had thrown at her. And as he drew closer he saw it, the maggots that covered her eyes._

Flint awoke with a start. A thick sheen cold of sweat clung to his face and body, only adding to his discomfort as his heart pounding wildly in his chest. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple as he pushed himself up against the cot. He didn't move for several moments. Instead he tried to allow himself time to become oriented with where he actually was. _When_ he was. Candlelight lit the room with a soft glow and outside the waves seemed calm and quiet. Yet still his stomach churned.

"--aptain. Captain..?" Green eyes slowly dragged upwards to see Silver. The man sat along the window seat as he always did with a book laid out open on his lap. A small, fake smirk was set on his lips. "You alright..?" Flint gave a slight shake of his head. His stomach twisted and turned as he could practically feel any remaining color leave his face. Suddenly his vision blurred and slanted sharply, but not before seeing that expression on Silver's face slowly meld into one of genuine concern. The man had just grabbed his crutch to stand when Flint lurched over the side of the bed and wretched. Even after he had emptied the contents of his stomach on his cabin floor, he heaved. He coughed, almost choking as a hand rose to wipe his mouth.

" _Jesus,_ " Silver swore. Flint had hardly heard the telltale step-thud-step of his approach, but moments later a bucket of water was nudged beside his feet. At Howell's suggestion he always kept a pale of fresh water nearby so that Silver could clean his stump and prevent infection. Now, he supposed it would serve well enough to wash his face and rinse the putrid taste of bile from his throat. And perhaps vomit into if it came to that again.

 "Thank you.." Flint rasped. The soreness of his throat was obvious in his voice. He didn't miss the snort from his quartermaster.

"Must really feel like shit if you're thanking me," Silver stated though his tone held no amusement.

Flint only grunted in response. Hands dipped into the cool water before running them over his face. After a few moments he rested his elbows heavily against his knees, the man drawing in a few unsteady breaths as tried to clear his mind. His racing heartbeat had just begun to settle when there was a knock at the door. Flint gaze hardened and he sighed, but before he could so much as utter a word Silver was hobbling past him. He opened the door not even a foot to see Billy. It was his turn to be on the night's watch.

"Everything alright?" Billy asked with an arched brow. "I heard an awful noise." The man leaned a bit to see inside the cabin and Silver immediately shifted in an attempt to block his view. But with his impressive height those efforts obviously came to naught. Flint only humored the bosun a glance, yet he knew it would be understood to keep this matter quiet. Word of a sick captain, no matter the reason, was not a good one to have spread.

"Actually," Silver started, using that sickly sweet tone that made Flint feel nauseous all over again, "It seems the new cook is just as incompetent as I ever was. That stew did not agree with me at all.." His hand moved to hold his belly in a dramatic effect. Flint could only imagine the false embarrassment he wore on his face when he spoke next. "Made me quite sick. Now, could you grab someone to help clean up the mess before our captain here throttles me? Dooley, perhaps. Man owes me a favor."

Billy's eyebrows were raised and Flint only shook his head. If he didn't still feel so disoriented he would have rolled his eyes. Billy cast the captain another glance before accepting his dismissal. The door shut moments later and Silver gimped back across to the room. Though Flint's eyes were trained on the floor, that distinctive iron peg peeked out from the bottom of Silver's pant leg as the man stilled in front of him. "So..?" he asked.

Flint finally glanced up at him. "So?" he repeated.

Silver sighed before setting the crutch against the cot and sitting down. It seemed the man never waited for invitation before invading his space. "I've noticed you've been having a rather lot of nightmares lately."

"Have you, now?"

Silver simply hummed. Then, to his shock, he actually fell silent for a few moments as he appeared to think over his next words. "Mrs. Barlow?" he eventually asked.

Flint stiffened. Wiping his mouth once more he stood, angling his feet around the puddle of wretch before grabbing a bottle of whiskey from his desk. When he turned Silver was giving him an incredulous look. Yet if he had any thoughts of suggesting that alcohol wasn't a good choice right after vomiting, they died on his lips. Even now Silver seemed to know better than to argue when given that particular look of warning. Flint's even stare persisted as he uncorked the bottle and took a long draught. Though it was bitter, it would at least wash the biting taste of bile from his mouth.

Another knock sounded and Flint called his permission for the men to enter. Billy stood behind a tired and rather perplexed looking Mr. Dooley. The moment he took in the mess his face twisted into a scowl, a swear about to leave his lips when Silver cut him off. Once again the man was clutching his stomach. "Ahh, thank you, Dooley." As he spoke he grabbed his crutch and hefted himself up, his free arm still wrapped around his side. "Think I could use some fresh air... Captain?"

Flint's lips pursed. Despite his better judgement he followed Silver out onto the main deck, but not before taking another swig. He would need it if he was to continue suffering the man. Outside the night air was crisp and cool, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of saltwater to his nostrils. Flint quickly found himself drawing in a deep breath. He moved over to the side of the ship at a pace Silver could manage and rested heavily on his forearms as he overlooked the water.

The quartermaster joined him not moments later. "Do you--"

"No," Flint hissed. He didn't want to discuss this; not with him, not with anyone. These were his demons. While Silver may be privy to his few moments of weakness due to their new sleeping arrangements, he would not allow him to catch a further glimpse. He didn't need his sentiments nor his pity. He would deal with the loss of Miranda just as he had Thomas' death.

Except that time he wasn't alone.

Silver had raised his hands in mock surrender. He knew from Flint's harsh tone that he had lost the battle. Unfortunately, this did not lead the to man being silent for long. Instead he started recalling what he had overheard aboard the ship and within the various towns' taverns and brothels. Flint didn't even entertain the notion of listening to a word. It was pointless droll, petty gossip and tidbits that held no actual weight. And yet Silver prattled on about what he could include in his next nightly address and so on. With Silver's constant yammering, Flint found it all but impossible to focus his thoughts. He couldn't dwell on the sudden loss of Miranda or wallow in self pity. And perhaps that was Silver's intent. To keep him anchored, to ensure that he didn't drift into that sea alone and with no tether.

Eventually Silver began to grow quiet and Flint was finally able to enjoy the comfort of some silence. Strangely enough his thoughts had long since settled. The two simply stared out over the water at the waves that crested in the distance. He wasn't sure how long they remained out there on the deck. It could have been an hour, maybe several. Eventually, though, Flint spoke. "Is your stomach feeling better, Mr. Silver?" he asked.  
  
Silver chuckled. "Yes, actually," he answered, readily recognizing when he was being dismissed. Flint bristled ever so slightly when Silver's hand appeared on his shoulder in a gentle grip. Perhaps it was in an effort to extend some form of comfort, or perhaps it was simply to aid his balance as he reached for his crutch. Yet as that touch lingered for far longer than necessary, Flint found himself inclined towards the former. "Goodnight, Captain," the man murmured.  
  
Flint sighed softly and continued to stare out towards the water. Green eyes closed as he listened the gentle step-thud-step-thud of Silver's retreat. Finally some peace. Yet as he heard the distant call of Silver's thanks to Dooley, which was quickly followed by a, "Yeah, fuck off", the captain found a slight smirk pulling at his lips.


End file.
